


You Measured Your Thumb Against Mine

by Fox_in_the_snow



Series: Ladies And Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Post-Lethal White, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_in_the_snow/pseuds/Fox_in_the_snow
Summary: Several months after Lethal White, Strike and Robin drive to Hull for a case and talk about a lot of different things. More romantic than it sounds (hopefully!).





	You Measured Your Thumb Against Mine

We sat for hours  
You measured your thumb against mine  
Electricity shooting down my spine  
We sat for hours  
You weathered my monologue  
A burning beacon, gleaming through the fog  
_\- Sunflower_ , by Courteeners

 

They were driving to Hull in the old Land Rover to stake out a husband’s business trip, as his wife, their client, suspected him of having an affair with his personal assistant. Or, to be more accurate, Robin was driving the old Land Rover, and Strike was stretched back as far as he could in the passenger seat, chomping his way through a packet of salt & vinegar crisps. He turned to Robin after swallowing a mouthful of the little crumbs left at the bottom of the packet.  
  


“Robin, do you know why I support Arsenal?” he asked casually, crumpling the empty packet into a ball and putting it back in the bag that Robin had brought. She looked a little surprised by the question, her eyes momentarily flicking to him.  
  


“Um, not really. Because of your Uncle Ted?”  
  


“Ted’s from Cornwall," Strike replied, scoffing slightly.  "Why on earth would he support Arsenal?”  
  


Robin sighed without thinking, sounding fed up with the conversation already. “Because maybe people could have some imagination when it comes to picking their football teams? Or is imagination incongruent with all that grunting?”  
  


Strike grinned, “You didn’t grow up with football, did you?”  
  


“No, Masham’s a rugby town. I feel the same way about rugby, though. It’s all more or less the same.” Robin had never really liked sport, and had only gotten less keen on it over the years as Matthew’s arrogant and aggressive side were brought to the forefront while he was both playing and watching sport. She knew Strike was a big football fan but, thankfully, had never seen it make him act so childishly.  
  


“So basically you don’t understand about football and imagination, as you call it, and beauty and –“  
  


Now her eyes were really rolling and she shook her head in false surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. It’s ‘the beautiful game’, I know. Whatever. So why do you support ‘the gunners’ then?”  
  


“I can hear those ‘inverted commas’ in your voice, you know, and I don’t like your mocking tone,” he turned to her, smirking. “Am I going to have to spend the next few hours of this drive explaining to you why football is so glorious?”  
  


“No thanks, Matthew already tried to do that many times.” Robin’s tone was a little more clipped than she’d intended and a second or two went past before Strike responded. He thought it was definitely time to change the subject now that Matthew – _that idiot_ – had entered into it.  
  


“All right, what’s your favourite Beatles album then?”  
  


“What are you doing? Did you read some article about ice breaker games for colleagues? Are you trying to get to know me on the most basic, universal, British level? Football and The Beatles? What’s next – are you going to ask whether I prefer digestives or hobknobs? Who my favourite judge is on The X-Factor?”  
  


“No, but now that you mention it,” he quipped, “Who’s your favourite Doctor Who?”  
  


She didn’t answer and he wasn’t sure if she had heard. “Robin?” he prompted, “You have seen Doctor Who, haven’t you?”  
  


Robin shook her head slightly, as if trying to shake away a thought, and then said brightly, “Pretty sure it’s a pre-requisite to getting your British passport, so yeah, I’ve seen it. Why?”  
  


“Well, which Doctor do you like best?”  
  


“Really? You’re really asking? Um… Fuck… How many other there? Fourteen? Um, which number was he, Black Leather Jacket, Christopher Eccleston – the Ninth One, he’s my favourite. For obvious reasons.”  
  


Strike furrowed his brow. Obvious reasons? Was he not picking up on something here? Robin saw his perplexed look and smiled, tapping the steering wheel slightly gleefully.  
  


“Because he’s a Northerner, of course. For the first time ever. And because he’s…. well, he needs looking after. He needs someone to make him feel better.”  
  


“You turned on by a black leather jacket and big ears? I thought it was David Tennant all the women wanted to – you know.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.  
  


“No! I mean yes, of course. I mean no, it’s not about what they look like.”  
  


“Christopher Eccleston is from Lancashire – is that really acceptable to you Yorkshire folk?” he lengthened his vowels, putting on a good approximation of a broad Yorkshire accent. Robin rolled her eyes.  
  


“I think we’ll take what we can get.”  
  


“But why do you like him so much?” he persisted. He hadn’t actually been asking the question seriously but when Robin had taken it that way and started answering honestly, he’d become curious. There was something in the way she was talking which let him know this was a topic of some significance to her, as strange as that might seem. He wanted to know everything about her, including her proclivities for Doctor Who.  
  


“Because – well because… okay, so that Doctor committed genocide and killed all his own people, all the Time Lords. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to in order to end the Time War and save everyone.” Robin saw Strike raise his eyebrows at how detailed she was getting. She let her breath out loudly. “Full disclosure, the new Doctor Who started in 2005 when I was – when I was at home after… Anyway, I ended up watching a lot of it, so I know what I’m talking about. He had to kill them all: everyone he’d ever known and loved. He had to kill them so that the world wouldn't end. And he was so bloody _broken_ afterwards because of it but he had this absolute joy in him, like no matter how many terrible things had happened to him he still couldn't suppress the belief that people deserved to be saved and to be happy. But he couldn't see this, couldn't really feel the good in his existence, on his own; he needed someone there to help him. Which I like, because..." she was suddenly aware that there was a lump in her throat as she thought about the Doctor and Rose that hadn't been there a second ago. Her eyes blurred and she shook it off, knowing she had to concentrate on the road. Strike was silent too, apparently contemplating what she'd just said.  
  


Robin had to break the silence, and said, with a bit of a nervous laugh, "Now you think I'm a giant geek or something, do you? I guess I am."  
  


“No,” she could tell her was looking at her and even though she couldn’t see his face it felt like a very fond look. She blushed deeply. “I always knew you were a giant geek – I’ve seen the book shelf in your house, remember. Now I think you’re a soft touch for big ears and a cheesy fucking grin.”  
  


He reached out and gently flicked the hand that was on the gear stick, teasing and affectionate. She was grateful to him for lifting the mood; she hadn’t intended to start remembering that time after the rape and what Doctor Who had meant to her as she’d been stuck in her room all those months. She certainly hadn’t meant to let Strike see that part of her. She hoped he wasn’t going to start drawing conclusions and making associations about what she’d told him.  
  


“Hey, Robin,” he said, “If you could go anywhere in the history of time and space, then, where would you choose? With your Northern Doctor and his TARDIS? You have to actually leave his police box, by the way, you’re not allowed to just stay in there and “explore” him,” he finished, eyebrows waggling once again.  
  


“Shut up, you twat. I would probably go back to last Friday night and not drink so much with Vanessa. Going to my cousin’s daughter’s christening with a rotten hangover was a horrendous experience.”  
  


“You proper lush, you. Three glasses of wine and the weekend’s a write-off.”  
  


Robin ignored him. “Where would you go, anyway? If you could go back in time?”  
  


“1990,” he said immediately, a wistful air in his voice. “Arsenal won the league and England got to _this close_ to a World Cup Final. Heady days, they were.”  
  


They were both lying, or least avoiding being too honest, and they were both aware of it. The atmosphere, which had been heavy for a few minutes, had lightened and neither was eager to take it back by getting into deeply personal territory. Each was thinking of what they thought the other would do with a time machine – Robin guessed Strike would try to stop his army jeep from being blown up, and Strike assumed Robin would save her university self from walking home from that party alone – and it wasn’t until they got to a big roundabout with signs for the M180 and Humberside that they spoke again.  
  


“We’re not too far now,” commented Robin, glancing at the GPS. “Probably around 30 more minutes.”  
  


“And how far is Hull from Masham?”  
  


“Oh, Masham is much further on. I’d say another hour and a half up from Hull.”  
  


“So no popping in for a delicious home-cooked meal with your parents?”  
  


A squawk of laughter left her mouth inadvertently. The thought of Strike sitting at her parents’ dining room table and making conversation about the particulars of their job in Hull was not a welcome prospect. Not to mention, she wasn’t sure she wanted to subject herself –and Strike – to her mother’s intense curiosity about their relationship now she and Matthew had officially split up. It had only been a few months but she was sure Linda would be looking for signs of ‘something more’, and Robin wasn’t ready for that sort of scrutiny just yet. She had no idea herself how things were between them.  
  


They were close – perhaps closer than they’d ever been. There was something almost indefinable there that seemed to hold a promise of what could come if they let it. And when she admitted it to herself, that promise was a big one; she was no longer able to imagine her life without him. This both scared her and filled her with a lovely warmth in equal measures, but expressing that seemed too huge, and not exactly accurate. Was it romantic to say to someone “I could live without you – I just don’t want to”? she’d heard that line in a song once years ago and had liked it because it showed choice and independence, not some dramatic, painful enmeshment. She wanted to be a person who found pride in consciously choosing to be with someone – the right person – and for that person to choose her back, both knowing there were hundreds of other choices they could have made.  
  


“That’s a no then, is it?” Strike asked drily.  
  


“Yeah, it’s a no. I think Mum’s on some sort of health kick following a bad cholesterol reading anyway, so you probably wouldn’t enjoy the salad and brown rice dinners she’s been serving up. Martin’s been hating it.” She laughed again at the distinctly put-off curl of his lip.  
  


“No, you’re right, best to keep a wide berth. We’ll have to be alert at dinner time, anyway, as we’ll need to be seeing how intimate this so-called business trip gets. Speaking of which, do you want to have a quick break before we get there? I need a smoke,” he finished, patting the pocket with his box of Benson & Hedges in it. They were just about to pass a roadside café and Robin indicated left, pulling in neatly between the cars already parked outside.

*********************************************************

 “Well, that was depressingly predictable,” Robin stated glumly as they reached the lobby of the motel. They were standing outside the door to Strike’s room which was next to Robin’s, and he was fishing the key out of his pocket.  
  


“Can’t blame a guy for his urges now, Robin.”  
  


“What kind of sexist bullshit is –” she caught a glimpse of the sardonic look on his face and stopped.  
  


“Yep,” he agreed, “depressingly predictable. We got some good photos, though, so the client should be happy.” Robin looked as if she was about to correct him so he held up a hand and continued, “Okay, poor choice of words, but she’ll pay us, and that’s what matters right now.”  
  


“That’s pretty cold.” Robin, who was frowning at him in displeasure, had made no move to open her own room. She appeared to be intent on expanding her gloomy mood and fixed Strike with a sharp gaze as he pushed his door open.  
  


“Is it? Isn’t that part of our business model?” He walked into his room and sat down on the bed with a sigh as Robin continued to speak to him. She was standing in the door frame, arms folded. He had the strange sensation of wanting her to stop talking and leave him alone, but also to come in and lie on the bed with him. He wanted to relax, and these days Robin’s presence normally brought him a peacefulness he enjoyed more than he would ordinarily confess to. Not right now, though, as she eyed him from across the room.  
  


“I just hate it and I don’t like you talking about the breakdown of a marriage so glibly.”  
  


Strike raised his eyebrows. Something had obviously touched a nerve, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to continue the conversation. He didn’t feel like pointing out that her moral superiority didn’t seem to rear its head when it came to their job most of the time. It had been a long day and he didn’t fancy getting into that right now. Robin, on the other hand, didn’t feel like walking away from an argument that quickly. Something had flared up inside her and she felt unaccountably angry at Strike for not caring about the human side of things.  
  


“Don’t look at me like that – like you have to avoid touching the subject because of my history.”|  
  


“Robin, I can tell you I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort. All I’m concentrating on is what I’m going to get from the mini-bar.”  
  


Robin could sense Strike trying to mitigate the brewing argument and drew in a deep breath. She shouldn’t be pushing him like this – he hadn’t really done anything wrong. In fact he hadn’t done anything wrong at all, and yet… there had been this moment while they were watching their client’s husband and his personal assistant that she couldn’t shake off.  
  


Strike and Robin had been watching from a booth in the corner, sharing a bowl of chips and a couple of drinks. The objects of their investigation had been sitting at the bar, leaning close together and giggling over their drinks when the man’s phone had rung. He’d looked down to see the caller ID and so had she, straining a little bit to see properly. From the awkward way they both reacted it had obviously been his wife, and he rejected the call, putting the phone back in his pocket quickly.

 

The woman had moved closer to him and whispered something in his ear that had clearly meant to be funny, but Robin could tell that his laughter wasn’t sincere. He seemed uncomfortable and guilty, and she watched as he put his drink back on the bar and fiddled with his wedding ring, frowning deeply. This hadn’t gone unnoticed by his companion, who’d placed a hand on his thigh and tried to look confidently sexy but instead seemed somehow both predatory and insecure; the effect disturbed Robin greatly, and she’d turned away in disgust.

 

For some reason, she had been filled with an explosive anger. Why the fuck did people get into these situations if they didn’t really want to? How did they let small mistakes become life-changing decisions? When did someone stop being pitiable and start being malicious? She had hated them all in that second, the husband and his personal assistant, the wife with such a bad relationship she’d sunk to hiring strangers to get seedily involved, the people working at the hotel who facilitated the whole sordid business… She had hated them for their part in this huge unhappiness, including herself and Strike.

 

Strike had glanced at her questioningly as she must have been looking murderous. She’d shaken her head with aggressive dismissiveness and waited for him to covertly take a few photos before storming out of the bar and into the women’s bathroom to regroup before leaving together. It had only been a short walk to their motel and it had been spent in silence, Strike smoking and Robin feeling enraged and embarrassed, a combination which served only to blacken her mood and increase her churlishness.

 

 She was still standing in the doorframe, but her shoulders had dropped and her face was etched in sadness. Strike took it all in and decided the quickest way end the conversation so he could lie down, have a drink, and see if there was anything good on TV was to let Robin get out exactly what was bothering her.  “Why don’t you explain to me, then, why you’re so upset?”

 

“Because that guy doesn’t even love this woman he’s sleeping with. He doesn’t. You could see it in how he treated her, but does he love his wife? Who even knows. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. What is he doing with himself? How has this happened to him, to them?”

 

Strike shrugged and took his shoes off. “That’s how these things work. People are arses to each other. That’s love.”

 

“It’s not, though!” she retorted, feeling anger bubble at his blasé response. “At least it doesn’t have to be.”

 

Strike’s tone was unconvinced and he shrugged again. “Seems the only outcome from where I stand.”

 

“Just because you have this twisted notion of romance it doesn’t mean you’re right.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though, either. The evidence seems to be overwhelmingly in my favour, I might add.” Where he was calm, she could feel the anger starting to spill over again. This was the version of Strike who annoyed her the most, when he appeared to detach himself from human emotions and connection and she couldn’t stop the scorn from keeping into her voice.

 

“Oh right, here comes Cormoran the cynic, not interested in - ”

 

Strike was quick now. “Not interested in what? What are you talking about?”

 

Robin hung her head and retreated into herself. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Forget I said anything.” She recognised she was about to go too far and didn’t want to say anything she might regret.

 

“Fine with me.”

 

She suppressed an eye roll and pursed her lips in an attempt to hide the frustrated “of course” from coming out of her mouth.

 

Strike took a breath and reminded himself of all the reasons why fighting with Robin was a highly unpleasant exercise. He needed to stop this before it got any worse, so he took on a tone of concession.

 

“Robin, you’re right, I do feel pretty negative about this stuff… Love is messed up for me. Love is Charlotte screwing me over again and again. Love is my mother dying before I got a chance to know her properly. It’s letting the people important to me down time and again. Love is Matthew fucking Sarah Shadlock in your marital bed a barely a year after saying “I do".  It’s husbands shagging their secretaries while we watch, it’s wives running off with their yoga instructors, it’s – “

 

“No! Stop it.” Robin’s head had snapped up and her body appeared to become tense with feeling. There was a burning in her cheeks which made her look powerful and almost glowing. He had to acknowledge he was drawn to this fiery version of her because as fierce as she could be, there was always an underlying layer of hopefulness. It was something that in his weaker moments he found strangely touching.

 

She continued, “this is where you’re going wrong. Some of those things aren’t love at all!  Love is you sitting by Jack's bedside all night while he was unconscious in hospital. It's Ilsa making Nick banana cake on his birthday because it's his favourite even though she can't stand bananas. It's my mum not being angry that she and my dad wasted all that money on my stupid wedding. It’s you still supporting Arsenal even after they lose to Spurs _again_. Love fucking hurts sometimes, Cormoran, it does. But not always. Love is too many amazing things for you to just write it off like something that causes you pain or because, I don't know, you have some ridiculous idea that you don't deserve it."

 

"Wait, Ilsa doesn't like bananas? How do you know that?"

 

Robin was perplexed. Of all she’d said, she couldn’t believe he was focusing on the bananas. "Because I hate them too and we bonded over it once."

 

"Hang on a second here - you hate bananas?" he looked at her quizzically, remembering the bag of food she’d brought for their car journey. "But you packed one for me today."

 

Robin looked slightly taken aback, and started to blush, leaning heavily on the door frame. "Yes, because I know they're one of the few fruits you will eat without grumbling, and I thought you were still trying to do your healthy eating thing."

 

Strike got up from the bed and took a few steps towards her. "So you brought me a banana, even though you apparently hate them.”

 

She was bright red now, and ducked her head so her hair was covering her eyes. “Yeah, but I also brought crisps and a whole packet of Penguins,” she said stubbornly, as he stood in front of her in the door way, grinning down at her affectionately. She could smell him now and when his scent entered her nostrils it produced a curious mix of desire and fear. Something was about to happen; choices were about to be made.

 

Strike felt a bursting in his heart for the first time in a long time, like a glorious cartoon beam of light was pushing its way out. This was it, wasn’t it? This was the time to say more and do more. This was their hug at her wedding, only this time there was no pain and no pressure. He stepped in towards her, feeling like he was bathing her in the beam of light erupting from his chest. She glowed even brighter than before.

 

“My mum used to love bananas, you know,” he said softly. “And Arsenal. She was absolutely mad for Arsenal, for some reason.” He was staring right into Robin’s grey eyes, which were open wider than he’d ever seen them before. “Thank you for bringing me one today.”

 

“You’re welcome,” she said croakily, and swallowed, her Adam’s apple visibly bobbing in her pale throat. His eyes flicked down to the hollow of her collarbones and back up to her face. He was letting himself think things he normally pushed down deeply and it was half exhilarating, half ridiculous. And yet, it was Robin, and there had been enough moments between them over the last few years – enough signs, to use language he usually reserved only for cases – to tell him he wasn’t going to be rebuffed. Not the way she was looking up at him, completely and totally inviting him to continue.

 

“I do know what – what the good parts of relationships are, just so’s you’re aware. I do know how to care about people.”

 

Robin’s voice was sweet and insistent. “What are you trying to say?”

 

Strike’s heart spasmed pleasurably and he bent his head even further towards her, the distance between them diminishing and crackling. “Does it need saying?”

 

She almost choked as what felt like every emotion she’d ever had for him simultaneously rushed up into her throat. “Yes it fucking well does!”

 

He swallowed his last bit of fear and forced the words out. “Uh, Robin, I hope you know I care about you, a fucking huge load.” Her lips twitched almost into a grin and she nodded up at him silently for a few seconds, the nods getting more pronounced and her smile spreading. She was beautiful, utterly beautiful, and she was right there for him, _right there_ within reach, finally. He took a piece of her red gold hair between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and tugged gently, wondering what it would smell like to bury his whole face in it.

 

“Yeah?” Robin reached out and pushed the palm of her right hand into the middle of his chest, drumming her fingers lightly on his sternum. She didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with herself and her touch, even through his shirt, was electrifying in its endearing uncertainty.

 

“Yeah,” he murmured, heart throbbing, scalp tingling, “C’mere.” He bent over as she stood up to meet him, and they pressed their mouths together. God, the feel of her soft lips was enough to make him regret the past three and a half years of being in her presence and not kissing her. What the fuck had he been doing for all that time instead of this? What would he ever do again? He opened his mouth slightly and felt her tongue against his and actually groaned, which would have been embarrassing if she hadn’t simultaneously reached up to pull him in closer by the back of his neck. His thumbs grazed the sides of her face and he was surprised to realise that even in all those fantasies involving Robin that he’d pushed resolutely away he hadn’t imagined how lovely and soft her cheeks would feel.

 

Robin pulled away and beamed up at him sheepishly, leaning back against the door frame. He copied her, resting his shoulder against the wall, several inches away from hers. “So,” she exhaled, “Hull.”

 

Strike was sure his face was split into a gormless grin too. “You know what they say: there’s nothing as romantic as a Humberside motel.” They continued smiling at each other until Robin’s face fell a little, and her tone became more cautious.

  
 “Cormoran, I don’t really know what this is.”  
  
 “No,” he shrugged, in an oddly reassuring gesture. “Neither do I.”  
  


“And that’s okay?”  
  


His thumb stroked her cheek again and shot a ripple of pleasure throughout her entire body. “It’ll have to be.” Buoyed by Strike’s complete lack of concern, she peered further into his room.  
  


“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you going to invite me in?”  
  


“Didn’t know I needed to be that explicit about it.” Strike stepped aside to let her through, catching a whiff of her scent as she brushed past him. Although he wanted to believe that everything would be fine – that he could invite Robin into his room after kissing her without any problematic repercussions – he knew this had to be handled properly, or it could be a disaster from which they – he – might not recover. He swallowed, slightly nervous now, and followed her to the bed, where she had sat down. Sitting down next to her, he bumped her shoulder with his. “You’re looking very pretty.”  
  


She looked confused, and glanced down at her outfit of jeans and a grey-green woollen jumper. “Now? But I’m exactly the same as I’ve been all day.”  
  


“Well, you’ve been looking very pretty all day.” Strike had no idea where he was getting the courage from to say these things. He was normally very reserved, but there was just something so intoxicating about sitting next to someone he trusted completely; someone he only wanted good things for; someone who made him feel simultaneously at ease, and like he could probably jump up and dance, if he were that sort of person.  
  


Robin was bright red again. This was new and wonderful and she didn’t know how to respond. “I’m sorry, that’s lovely, but I’m just – I don’t know what to say. This is not what I thought would happen when I packed that banana this morning.” She saw his eyes narrow and quickly corrected any impression that she wasn’t extraordinarily pleased with this unexpected development by resting her hand on top of his and giving it a small squeeze. “Not that I’m complaining.”  
  


Strike looked down at the hand and then interlocked his fingers with hers. “Never before has a piece of fruit been so important in my life,” he agreed.  
  


“I know I’m being awkward,” Robin said slowly. “But I want you to know that this is nice. Really nice.” She shuffled closer to him and felt his presence acutely, exquisitely. There was heat radiating off him, pulling her towards him in waves. They weren’t really touching except for their hands but it was enough to send shivers of excitement pulsing through her body.  
  


“Pretty bloody amazing, from my perspective, actually.”  
  


She gripped his hand tightly now and tried to think of something more meaningful to say than simply _finally_. “Well, here’s to…” but she didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He didn’t seem to mind.  
  


“Yeah, here’s to…” and as he trailed off in the same way she’d done, he leaned in to kiss her again, feeling like he didn’t need a single other thing in this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I have never been to Hull – I’m from Australia – but my boyfriend (who is as Yorkshire as they come) is often very scathing about it, so this is my effort to rehabilitate it a little. 
> 
> I actually can't remember whether it is explained or not why Strike supports Arsenal so apologies if it is and I've just completed changed that. It may well be because of his uncle Ted; certainly geography is no obstacle for the legions of Manchester United fans all over the UK/world. 
> 
> This is dedicated to my sister. No doubt Robin and Strike finally getting together would improve everyone’s lives, but I hope it would improve hers most of all. 
> 
> Partly inspired by rewatching some old Doctor Who and remembering that I am an unabashed Doctor/Rose shipper, even after all these years. 
> 
> Also, if you haven’t ever listened to the Courteeners, you don’t know the greatness that is Liam Fray’s Mancunian accent saying “sunflower”. Go and rectify that now. You’re welcome.
> 
> The title of the series comes from the song 'Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space' by Spiritualized, and it's beautiful. Please listen, it will make your life better.


End file.
